


stained colors

by dinEli



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Isaac-centric, Love Confessions, M/M, Moving On, Mutual Pining, POV Isaac Lahey, POV Scott McCall, Post-Canon, Road Trips, Scott-Centric, Song Based, Trans Male Character, Weddings, well sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinEli/pseuds/dinEli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A song-driven future fic in which Melissa's getting married and only that can drag Isaac's ass back to Beacon Hills.</p><p>An unavoidable outburst of feelings ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reconsider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do you remember when we used to run?_   
>  _Sometimes I think alone_   
>  _I dream under the sun_   
>  _And I know, it's a long long time ago now_   
>  _But I miss it, I miss it so_
> 
>  
> 
> \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello darkness, my old friend
> 
> [The summaries are all pieces from Rhodes' "Run".]

_> > remember me, I'm the one that's back from over_

_time's gone by and I'm still so far from over_

_you reappeared like you had never been gone, I lose composure_

_you're touching me like you have no desire for closure_

 

* * *

 

Love is this word that comes out of people's mouths when they're feeling too elated, he's concluded. It didn't mean anything. He knew what it was, _feeling elated_. He's been there. A lot more often than he's imagined he ever would.

It was his call, in the end, though, Isaac's. It was up to him, to decide whether to call it love or just _-_ Some people _were_ awfully careful with words. For they mean too much, if you listen. They could be lies, told to the self, told to others; they could be hidden truths. They could punch you in the guts. _Their absence could leave you hanging forever._

(He's accustomed to lies.)

He's also been scared of calling it love for years now. He still is. He won't say it.

It was everything but.

He'd call other things, love. Things that _were_ , love. Only they weighted far less. Or far _more_ \- honestly, it aches too much to think that it could have been. Bigger, better, stronger, it could have lingered. In some other way, in a way that didn't hurt, that he could think of it as love without the subsequent thought, the- _it's left a mark but it could have been deeper, it could have reached his core, it could have meant everything. It could have made him full._ Instead it just left him empty.

But then, it's his saying, in the end. And he says it _could have been_.

It was- but it also- it _should_ have been.

\--

He swears his plan ticket weights more than anything he's ever held.

_And that includes that time he tried to support the fucking ground while a crazed druid wanted to kill them all as a freaky sacrifice-_

He also hates planes; traveling in a _very_ closed space with a bunch of strangers, having to stay sit and quiet for hours on end. It makes his skin itch.

The first time Isaac's done it, he was sore all over. From grief (so much of it it filled his mouth, his eyes, his lungs) and- _words unspoken_. And empty spaces.

His body felt like a paper full of holes on it.

It would be funny, he had thought, _fucking hilarious,_ if the plane fell off the sky or exploded or whatever it is that happens to those things. The screaming and the desperate people calling their loved ones. Or just thinking about them, really loud, their emotions flaring up in their eyes.

He would have gripped the arm of his seat, release its belt, just to feel a little bit free of it all. And then he'd give in and think. Of his holes. Not from the people he's lost, but from the people _who'd lose him_. The people _he_ had left. He wondered if he was a hole on their papers. Whether he'd become one if he died.

He didn't; die. Arrived physically unscathed, feeling almost renewed from the whole experience, thinking _new place new life maybe new friends_ \- _maybe I'll love again_.

Except he doesn't really remember _loving_ that one time. That first second chance.

_(Except he does; he did. Love, that is. A lot. Too much._

_But then, that's not the point.)_

While coming back to the States for the first time since leaving it, Isaac feels like he's the one bearing the weight of the plane, the entire way.

It's really a surprise the pressure doesn't make his heart pop out of his chest.

\--

There's a thrumming in his ears while he descends to the kitchen, probably caused by the remnants of one of the dreams he pretends not to have, so maybe that's why he doesn't notice it. He's got unprepared.

Isaac Lahey's carefully arranging pieces of bacon and eggs on a plate, while humming a song unknown to Scott. He's fully concentrated, _tongue picking out, brows furrowed, eyes unmoving,_ even swaying a little to the melody, and maybe they _are_ the worst werewolves in the history of lycanthropy, because how could they not have _sensed_ each other?

_Maybe they had, unconsciously, you know, maybe their wolves had. Maybe it was in the back of their minds. Maybe it had felt natural, this scene. It has happened so many times in the past, why would their bodies have the impression of something being wrong?_

They do, though. Once they _actually_ notice each other's presence. Because the second Scott enters the kitchen he stops abruptly, almost backtracking, and Isaac's hunched shoulders from the dancing become stiff and he stands taller-

as if prepared to run, as if defending himself. How they would while facing a threat.

_Which makes no sense why would they they're friends aren't they?_

Scott exhales for a long moment, trying to make it up for the intake of breath he's just taken- while their eyes keep locked on each other, unseeing, yet unable to look away.

Unseeing, yet taking everything in.

His dream from last night tickles his mind and he licks his lips, brushes it off. _He won't think about it now._

"Why are you cooking and singing at 5 AM, dude?", he blurts out, and he prides himself on his voice coming out neutral. Isaac doesn't notice his struggle, though, for his whole posture changes, shoulders sagging and then he sort of _laughs_ , looking almost relieved, and for a second it seems like nothing has ever happened.

Only it has. It had to. And the second passes.

"Your mom said I could suit myself. Thought of making us our favorite breakfast.", and then he shrugs in that non-but-actually-very-committally way of his. Scott remembers now, he used to do it a lot. Before.

_It all seems to be coming back._

Shifting from one bare foot to the other, he tries not to dwell too much on the fact that he _can_ and he _has_ acknowledged, on this past few minutes, Isaac's appearance changes in scary detail.

He seems to be _healthier_ (less pale, less _dead_ , rosier, even), and Scott gives in a little, throws him a small smile, puts his limbs to work- _tries not to be too self-conscious_. Says, on his way to picking up the oranges to make their favorite juice, "Hope you haven't forgotten how I like my eggs. I mean-", grabs the jar, and starts squeezing the cut fruits with his bare hands, even chuckling to himself, and then shrugs, pretending not to have lost his line of thought, too focused on acting and breathing and beating _normally_.

 _(Isaac looks light as feather in his movements, and Scott_ has _become a master in disguising his own, but- but_ in reality _he feels like he weights tons. He feels big and clumsy. And honestly,_ that's not even new. _)_

In response to Scott's teasing, Isaac puts a plate on the counter, wearing that knowing smirk of his, and he seems at ease when he winks at Scott and says, "Mixed with butter and just a bit of salt."

And that's it.

(From the moment they sit, a chair away of distance, that's it.)

Aside from the _thank yous_ and the _pass me the juice pleases,_ they don't talk, they barely _look_ at each other, and their breakfast revolves around itself, as if its immutable taste and familiarity to their old mornings can actually make them believe nothing's changed-

and it's like this bubble of time, distant from reality. Like this living memory when it all appears to be the same, except for this _nagging_ at the back of their minds. For this bitter taste in Scott's tongue that has nothing to do with how hard he's bit it.

(Once it downs on him, that time _has_ passed, it's just- too much of a shock. This unannounced apparition. This sudden breath of _befores_ and _afters_ that hits him like a train. And maybe _Isaac_ was prepared, for he gives the impression of being, if not slightly more _aware_ , still _freaking content_ , chewing on his bacon and eggs, praising Scott's usually sweetish orange juice. But Scott _isn't_.

It's a succession of _everything is the same_ until _it isn't_ and honestly the whole thing feels like a rollercoaster.

 _It's exhilarating and terrifying_.)

And then Scott says he needs to get dressed and head to work, which leads to raised eyebrows and a quick (and rather embarrassed, he doesn't know _why_ ) explanation that _yes he's still at Deaton's but it's summer and things are hard and he's a werewolf with super-strength so why not_ also _work in this construction thing that earns him money and get his mind off stuff_ \- except he only says the very first part.

On his way out, he even manages to joke that the _dinner's dishes will be his!_ and only halfway through downtown does he think that maybe they will be. That maybe he had some hallucination or maybe Isaac's home for something else that doesn't involve _staying_ or-

He breaks rocks and carries heavy shit for hours before he realizes.

And if Scott's honest with himself (which he _usually_ tries to be), either Isaac stays or is gone when he gets home, _it won't matter_. And he knows the healthiest way to deal with it is to break _more_ rocks, but his limbs just feel like lead again, and he nearly throws up once _everything (that he can't name it)_ crawls up at his throat.

\--

Scott ends up looking at his image on the construction's dressing room with raised brows and a shocked shade to his eyes, his face heating up, for some reason. Has he really just forgotten that his mom's getting married in two days hence all of his friends were coming back to town?

What was he thinking?

_His cheeks are burning._

He's still shaking his head in disbelief at his own silliness thirty minutes later, knocking on Lydia's door, feeling anxious but giddy- they had talked about meeting at her house as soon as she's gotten back, not only to catch up on the wedding, she had said, but also- _well_ , because they have missed each other.

 _(Also because he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of seeing her- all of them, really-_ sane; _without those shadows coloring their eyes.)_

As soon as she opens it, though, her smile falters and her _entire being_ furrows at the sight of him, sweaty and with bits of plaster on his nails and knuckles. She studies him from head to toe, as she used to, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, honey, please tell me you've forgotten to take a shower only to praise my kinky side", and he lets out a choked laughter that could be mistaken by a sob if heard closely, smiling so wide it nearly breaks his face in half, hugging her almost too tight. "Ugh, Scott, you stink!", though she sounds amused, though she hugs him back just as fiercely.

 _He feels like saying "I can't believe you've made it",_ _here, in life; alive._

_("I can't believe we still have ourselves")_

_But then that would probably kill the mood._

Instead, his face reddens and he says, "I'm sorry I'm not shirtless then", and she doesn't even blink while replying "Aren't we all?", in that endearingly snobbish way of hers.

Lydia looks older, but Scott guesses they all do. It's not only about their clothes or how much they had fill in on their sides, or fill out, for that matter; it's more about the way they hold their bodies, their posture, the way they talk, or even smile, or move their hands. They've changed; and seeing Lydia for the first time in almost a year, and even remembering Isaac's carefree posture that morning, Scott thinks it was for the better.

Their whole demeanor resembles this _adultness_ he's never thought they would achieve, even though sometimes, with what they've been through, it was impossible not to have done it.

They lose themselves in conversation, of college and classes and colleagues and even foolish parties and hook ups they've found themselves involved in-

And- it's obvious that the supernatural hasn't disappeared from their lives. _It never will; it's literally part of who they are._ And they end up talking about it, too. (Mixed with their _normal_ lives, for this is how it's always been, one thing in the midst of the other. It's how they cope.)

About wolves coming up to Scott to join his pack (or just to _see_ him, which was just about the _weirdest_ shit ever and it made Stiles red of laughter when Scott had told him via Skype), about the research they are all still collecting on it, even if residing on different states, specially about _their_ own powers, seeing that they both still have only a small idea of the length of what they are able to do.

She mentions some cases of predictions she's _felt_ , not only of death, specifically, but of tragedy; and still seems like a very frustrating and _sad_ inexact science, but it's getting better, she says. It's getting easier, and Meredith, with whom she still stays in touch, is always around sharing whatever knowledge she may have acquired.

And it can be seen in the lack of dark circles under her eyes, that she's happier, she's brighter. That being bonded to death doesn't mean she _is_ death; doesn't make _it her_.

She's Lydia Martin; top student and actual frat girl, who sometimes has a deeper connection with the supernatural than most, who can sense darkness wherever it can be found. But she's also a young genius with a pretty awesome closet and some incredible shoes, and, you know, a very healthy sex life.

And she admits it may seem sadder, even, that they're used to this; but it's not that. It's not that death became part of their lives. She's just realized it's always been around them, they just couldn't have seen it before. And they do now. And maybe they can't always help, but they can try; _right, Scott?_

_(He smiles knowingly and a little subdued at that, but agrees whole-heartedly.)_

They're in the middle. She's whole but she has halves. And it wouldn't make sense except that it _does_. They are themselves but they are also _them_.

The True Alpha, the Banshee. They might have had those things literally _thrown_ at them - and fuck you, Peter, really - but they had managed around it. And they came out of it whole.

_Or as whole as they could be._

She mostly rants this to him over their years of self discovery, after school's over and they all run different paths.

And he knows it's not as easy as her words make it, for they've exchanged too many supernatural-related calls and messages while away, but he envies her strength and resolution nonetheless.

 _She's got a grip on_ herself _he's only barely grasped; that he only pretends to have._

_It's sad that she thinks they're alike._

(It amazes him that _them_ , in all their hidden fears and solitary heroism, could let these slip. That their texts and phone calls left off those snippets of thoughts they wouldn't normally share. Which they believed was only theirs, individually. When in truth, it wasn't.

They were a pack for a reason.)

"College helps, you know", she adds, for she _knows_ him and sometimes he really needs to hear it. "That thing you used to say, about how having a life helps... And honestly sometimes I'm so caught up in my researches that the entire library could drop dead and I'd think it was just something I'd eaten", and there's a glint in her eyes that confirms it. She's lighter than ever, and even her heartbeats sound like this steady march; so he smiles happily at her, and sighs, almost relieved, whenever she's not looking.

By the time the sun's starting to set, sending orange shadows on her living room walls, they are spread out on the carpet, eating some chocolate thing he's decided to make (that he's convinced her to eat, _for old time's sake Lydia you'll_ love _it_ ), with _sillyhappy_ smiles on their faces, and there's a lightness in Scott's heart he hasn't felt in a while.

"Ugh, your mom's gonna be such a beautiful bride, you know. When you sent me her dress' pictures I nearly _broke my cellphone in half_ ", she gushes, her head laying on his stomach, her long locks reflecting the reddish lights coming from the windows.

He breathes out a small chuckle before whispering "I _do_ know", scratches his scalp in mild-embarrassment, "And _I will_ most probably cry my eyes out, just an FYI."

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I won't let you forget how cute you'll look crying over your mom's wedding", and winks up at him, before stuffing chocolate in her mouth, and saying, a more somber quality to her voice . "Is your dad going to be there?"

Scott covers his face with both hands and lets out a tired sigh in response, unable to stop himself. She pats his thigh patronizingly, and it seems like something his own mother would do, calming him down, even in his childish moments. "At least your mom's family will be there, right? Didn't you tell me they're _super awesome_?"

They both laugh at his choice of words. And he feels so calm; he feels _easy_ in his own skin. Like he's settled.

"Yeah... That'll be cool", and he can't stop his next words from coming out of his mouth, his breath hitching and his heart skipping a beat, like his skin couldn't stay put. "D'you know who else is going to be there?"

He senses Lydia literally freezing mid-chew before saying, tone deadly serious: "If you say _freaking_ Deucalion I'll start planning his mid-celebration murder", and he lets out an incredulous laughter.

"God, no! What the hell would _he_ be doing in my mom's wedding?"

Lydia shrugs, like she couldn't be bothered with an answer, but says nonetheless, scorn dripping out of her voice, "I don't know. He's such a suck-up I wouldn't be surprised if he was the one paying for the damn th-"

"Isaac", the name bursts out of his mouth. The whole room seems redder, with its wine walls and the sunrays and Lydia's hair; his face burns.

He actually counts her blinking twice before asking, almost incredulously, "What- _Lahey_?" She looks up at him, he looks up at the ceiling.

"I don't remember us knowing _another_ Isaac...", he mumbles. She looks thoughtful for a while, still chewing on a mouthful of chocolate, watching the ceiling too, now, but with less enthusiasm _(less intensity)_ ; then shrugs again, undisturbed, disdainful, even.

"Well, I didn't even know he was alive. Less so that he still gave a shit."

For that comment she receives a bump on the shoulder and a whispered, "Lydia."

Scott swallows the lump in his throat.

Somehow the room seems smaller.

"I remember that you invited him for graduation and he didn't even reply to you, Scott", and suddenly her voice is too soft, too apologetic, too _gentle_. "So color me surprised he decided to show up this time." And then she huffs and starts playing with his available hand, rubbing her thumbs over the dirty spots on his knuckles that not even his meticulous pre-cooking wash-up covered. The caress only makes his eyes feel heavier, more _watery_ , and he swallows again, hard.

"He must have had his reasons."

 

* * *

 

_'cause I don't stand a chance in these four walls_

_and he doesn't recognise me anymore_

_burned out flames should never re-ignite, but I thought you might_

_take me home <<_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :) This piece of candy has been destroying my brain cells for almost a year, so I gave in to anxiety and split the whole thing; each chapter being based on one of the gazillion songs that have inspired me (and still do) to write it- so.
> 
> [This chapter's title and the excerpt at the beggining were from "Reconsider", by the XX- and is ridiculous the amount of their songs I can connect to these two. The piece at the end, tho, is from "Home", by Daughter, which is another band that've influenced me hEAVILY on this]
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed it! If not, tell me why, maybe I can make it better [winks]
> 
> And if you want, I'm on [tumblr](https://a-good-finder.tumblr.com), and it'd be nice to talk about whatever :)


	2. Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And the silence of your heart, it beats in mine_   
>  _And you thought it might disguise the parting line_
> 
> \--
> 
> A song-driven future fic in which Melissa's getting married and only that can drag Isaac's ass back to Beacon Hills.
> 
> An unavoidable outburst of feelings ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go again
> 
> [The summaries are from Rhodes' "Run".]

_> > things get damaged, things get broken,_

_I thought we'd manage, but words left unspoken left us so brittle,_

_there was so little left to give_

* * *

 

The strangest thing about it all is how much these walls have accommodated him in the past; how well he's fit inside them, how _protected_ he's felt.

He's come to terms with the fact _that_ \- for people like him home is never about settling. It's never about concrete, comfort, security. That he has to fight tooth and nail (fangs and claws, _really_ ) for it. For any _resemblance_ of it. However, Isaac has also come to terms with the fact that he _has_ got it- he's received a portion with them, Scott and Melissa. That these walls _have_ protected him. Made him feel safe. Like an idealistic home.

(But also from all these people who has surrounded him throughout his werewolf life. Who's helped him, saved him, _loved_ him.)

It hadn't been perfect- as it is. But then, there's no such a thing as _perfect_ , especially when living lives like theirs. There are no such things as ideals and pedestals.

Coming from an adolescence like his, from fear and harshness- it was easy to be deceived into believing the opposite. To him, the supernatural world came surrounded by _idealism_ and _epic-ness_. As if his life had become one of those movies- in which everything has its specific place. Even with all the blood and the fear- it fit. It matched the _ideal_.

Then, so did Scott and Melissa, at first. So did their home and their routine and Isaac's place in it.

So it was _distressing_ , to say the least- he isn't sure he understood at the moment, but he understands now. It was shocking. Seeing them as humans, as _individuals not idealized_ , not part of a fairy tale. Seeing them as people and not as _tropes_. Not for the benefit of his own imagination.

Not only the McCalls- _fuck_ , he used to put his entire life in this same realm; including when it came to Derek, and maybe even Allison-

(Although, when it comes to her, he's never sure. There wasn't enough time to make things _real_ \- sufficiently concrete for his mind to place it.

 _Although-_ _however_ , in the end, it was so real he could still feel it.)

He's put his life into so many hands, he's put his happiness out of his reach, for others to piece it together, avoiding the difficult but freeing truth- that _it's in his own_ , that _it is his own puzzle_. That his decisions are _his_ , and so are other people's.

That, most importantly- they are allowed to be weak and to need help- to make mistakes, and to be _wrong_.

It did take him a long time to achieve this knowledge- he's spent a huge part of his years away debating and thinking and struggling with it all. To be not _free_ , but also not _weighted_ by his past. To not let it define him in a negative way; _god_ , to maybe even grow into himself as more than a trope. As more than this one-sided version he used to see himself and others.

And for that, he _had_ to get away. He had to distance himself- which is ironic, in the least. Having to dissociate himself from them- in order to see _them for themselves_ and not pictured characters from his own mind.

For this, these walls appear _foreign_. He's spent so long staring at them in the past. _Before_. And here he is now, still raw, still conflicted, yet so different from those days. It's like part of him recognizes them, while the rest of him is left unfamiliarized with it all.

\--

He's already arranged the few clothes he brought and put his small bag underneath the bed- as Melissa had advised him to in the morning- when he hears the front door being unlocked.

It takes Isaac a second to identify her, _heartbeat, scent, steps_ ; Melissa, arriving from work or wherever it was she had to go to two days before her wedding, and he- he's relieved. _That it's not Scott._

Truth be told, he doesn't dwell on those thoughts at all; in fact, he hides them. Which is kind of disappointing, to say the least. He's expected- he was _ready to_ come back as an adult. As mature enough to _face_ his past and whatever has happened in this town- whatever thoughts had plagued him while staring at these same walls.

He's not. But maybe Melissa is, for she comes straight to his room and-

(And whoa- _his_ room.)

"Isaac?", she says as she knocks, almost _shyly_ \- and Isaac knows Melissa is perceptive enough to maybe notice how estranged he's become to this house.  "You busy?"

 _God_ , it takes him a _full second_ to even decide whether he should pretend to be asleep or not-

He doesn't want to think about it, so he lets her in.

She sits by his side, eyes as warm as ever, deep brown like Scott's are; then proceeds to follow his slow scan around the room- he feels like a teenager under her gaze. Awkward and silly, as if she's about to chastise him for forgetting to do the dishes.

"I can definitely say it's a nice strange to have you here again"

A beat. An inhale.

"I don't know- this room feels less empty with you in it", she immediately wrinkles her nose and laughs at herself, and catches his eyes, crinkling and gleaming a little. He gives her a small chuckle- and lets his tenseness go.

For a while.

"I'm glad I'm here to occupy the space, then", and her small falters. It dims, it becomes watery, and her hand finds his.

"We really missed you, Isaac."

And he knows she's not just saying it- Melissa is not one for bullshit, or for lying because is convenient. Also, her eyes are as sincere as ever, and it's beyond comforting to find no judgment in them. Except- _he thinks_ \- maybe it would've been better if she was mad, if she was angry. If she resented him for these past years' radio silence.

(The worst part is: maybe she does. Maybe she's missed him, yes, but then he's- he's denied them both his company and even usual responses from e-mails and- _he's pretty sure Scott has sent him a letter one time._ Maybe she's missed him- and then didn't understand why _he didn't miss them back_.

Except he _had_. He _does_.)

"I'm really happy you came for my wedding", he still hasn't said a word. Her hand is still holding his. There's a small lump in his throat he shouldn't be feeling. "I was actually a little worried you wouldn't come-", she gives him a side glance, and it's so _loaded_ his mouth moves in its own accord.

"Of course I'd come! It's your wedding...", the fact he hasn't showed up for _other important events_ hangs leadenly in the air, and he can't even bring himself to look at her. Again, awkward and silly, ready to accept being scolded. He looks down and his voice is tense, as is _hers_.

There is an undertone. Perhaps it's in his imagination, his guilt heaving things further than they actually weight. But he _feels_ it, it makes his chest grows tight- how clipped and distanced her words are. Like she's practiced them beforehand.

And it's not like he feels unwanted, and it's not like he's ever thought it would be the same- _fuck, he didn't want it to be the same_. Yet, the detachment _hurts_. He could try to hide it, compartmentalize it, divide it into little pieces and keep it away- like he was prone to doing ( _is_ , still). He _could_ try- but Melissa's gaze is warm and familiar, so he adds, to disperse, to try to be an adult- put the cards on the table. "I'm also- _you know_."

The world _better_ hangs. He's afraid he might start crying if he says it, so he's beyond thankful when the hand holding his tighten its grip, and she smiles.

It's subdued, but it's a _McCall smile_ , and that's already special in itself.

"I know, Isaac."

And looking at her, he _knows_ she does. For one small moment, between the whirlwind he's trying not to feel too much, he's both relieved and- _protected_. He feels protected. Again, by these walls, her hands, and her warm gaze.

\--

At first he felt like staying in his room the whole time. But then- after extending his conversation with Melissa, stretching it to a few details on her life and even fewer on his- he started to feel smothered. Inside those same walls, under her presence. It brought too much forth, to the surface.

So he decides to leave- the house, for a while. Honestly he just needed an out from an exchange of information that was both entertaining and exhausting him to the bone.

(Because, yeah, he cares, and he wants to know how their lives have been since he's left- of what has shaped them, what has changed and what stays the same; but for how bad he's tried to avoid contact, he doesn't think he can take in everything at once.

Like the onslaught of seeing Scott first thing in the morning; although he'd thought himself _being_ prepared for that one.)

He tells Melissa that he's _gotta see it_ , Beacon Hills in all its glory- _you know, without the deaths and the underworld wars the night used to hide_ (it is known and it was told- that the deaths and the wars and the villains had diminished significantly; Argent had said it was _almost_ safe)-

 _and how crazy it is that- that was their lives. Before- and that is_ strange _not to have blood clogging up the town's scent_

-keeps his tone light, then bolts his room as soon as Melissa locks herself in hers and goes walking around town, trying to catch scents and looking for things that have changed.

His conclusion was that the entire town smelled of Scott, and Isaac felt too much of a pack _thing_ to be completely comfortable with it. He thought, while walking, that it was good that Beacon Hills _had_ Scott for- _owner_. And he can't pretend it didn't feel _good_ to be under his wing again. But- for most of it he still feels like an Omega. And it's never felt strange until then, smelling Scott's unassuming protection on every street, almost like a mark of all the sweat and blood he's lost for this town and their habitants.

It never bothered him, thinking about being an Omega. At least until his senses reminded him that _Scott's_ an Alpha, and that he _used to be_ his Beta, overwhelmed by his power, warmed by his loyalty. _Before_.

And he didn't know if it was his wolf, wanting to be around others of its kind, or if it was just Isaac Lahey and this hollow feeling of _missing_ that hasn't really gone away.

But really, now that he thinks about it, with Scott he could never tell them apart.

(And that's exactly what he wanted to avoid.)

\--

He reaches home ( _already, again? does it feel like home so soon?_ ) around 11 pm, with an ache in his head and in his fucking _being_ from reminiscence and this obnoxious feeling of being in his hometown and barely recognizing its streets; in stepping on its sidewalks feeling like a foreigner, like a tourist. It wasn't just the scent that set him off. It was the similarities, the memories, the fact that he inadvertdly passed the roundabouts of the cemetery twice before realizing it and avoiding the path altogether.

(The plan was to visit it. To face his ghosts. But _not now_ , it's too soon.

Maybe he should face the living first.)

Melissa is asleep when he gets in, using the set of keys she's given him. But Scott's awake, on the living room, and Isaac stands by the entrance for a few seconds, dealing with this excited fear that makes his muscles vibrate and his flesh thrum, all of his previous concerns already forgotten. He doesn't realize his feet are taking him to where the slow breathing and the quiet chatter of the TV are coming from until he reaches the darkish room and Scott's gaze weights on his skin; he gives the other boy a sheepish smile, suddenly feeling too awkward and _tall_.

Scott's lips widens a bit, his eyes lighten up, but then they are back on the screen, his chin resting on his knees.

(He's not caught by surprise now, Scott. He's prepared- he's rehearsed.)

"How was the walk", there's a soft quality to his voice, and it almost doesn't sound like a question, but there's also this tenseness around the edges that Isaac just can't shake it off or call it tiredness. Still.

"Cool, I guess. Don't know why I thought this town would be different", he can't help but to look anticipatingly at the other boy, hoping for a reaction.

(As he was used to doing. _Before_.)

Brown eyes stay glued to whatever's on TV, his mouth curl into the tiniest of smiles, and still his tone doesn't change when he replies "I don't think it'll ever change."

"At least nobody tried to kill me. I call this a bonus", he looks down before smiling at his own joke, and then crane his neck without even noticing, eyes searching for a chuckle, at least. A real one- not like that morning's, not fake.

He finds himself nervous to make Scott laugh.

(Or to at least _look at him_.)

And it's too much like something from _before_ \- but he can't let go. Thing is, he's already here. That barrel has been broken; he's thought about it, he's weighted all his options- and he _is_ ready to face this. He can go through it calmly, reasonably.

Scott's profile is shadowed by the lights coming from the TV, and it only enhances the shadows under his eyes, the hardness of his jaw- and there is a light stubble around it. It's when it hits him how much time has passed that he wants it back the most.

"How was work?", again- the neck craning for a reaction, eyes expectant. He receives a shrug and a glance.

"Tough- but with werewolf strength things are pretty easy", Scott's hands twitch, and he looks at Isaac again, smiling politely. It doesn't even reach his eyes.

"Pretty sure the guys that work with you hate your guts- what with you putting a Buffy and lifting shit so easily-", he feels stuffed with satisfaction when that gets a small chuckle. But then it darkens.

"Aw- man, you have no idea."

And, yes- he _doesn't know_ _why_ \- he _doesn't_ have any idea. Whatever characterization he used to have on Scott- for as idealized as it has been- right now he finds himself at lost. He _knows_ this man- Isaac, he knows Scott. It's not that hard- some bits of him are the same. Yet- _God_.

"Did you eat anything out?", Scott says- and in his eyes there is this focus, this concern. It warms him and, _then_. Then it doesn't. Isaac feels cold all over.

"Yep", he lies, and the other man frowns a little, but doesn't pry. He's polite enough to off-handedly tell Isaac about the leftovers, to make himself at home- a slight smile.

And then _good night_.

Isaac goes back to his room feeling dumbfounded. The same foreign feeling catching up to him, as if these floors are not here, as if these walls are not real. As if these people he's reunited himself with are- _As if they are farther from him now than when they were an ocean away_.

(And he knows- _he does_ \- it all boils down to his idealizations- but the consternation is too powerful for him to allow this connection to settle _himself_.)

Because- _because_. Here goes.

He is here, he _is_. But he feels like he's still out there, apart, communicating through exclamation marks and _xxxx_ s that didn't actually mean anything other than words typed out from miles away. Other than a distance and a _detachment_ , almost, that weights on his gut. And, _fuck_ , it shouldn't- this house, these people; _Scott_. It should- it should _feel_. But it just seems like he has to dug deeper to find any comfort, to get any resemblance of a smile.

When once they came easier.

 _(And it's so_ noticeable _because Scott's smiles; man. The curve of his mouth and the shift of his lips and the dimples on his cheeks-_ well. _)_

Fuck, he _knows_ it's way easier to type ":)" than to actually do it, even easier than to pretend it is genuine. But that is _him_ , and this is Scott. Giving him something close-lipped and _polite_ , still, but- yeah, closed. Locked. Like this is all he can give and nothing else; not anymore.

 _Not anymore_.

And- ok. Maybe Isaac was like this once. He was distant, he hardly let anybody in. _He still is._ He still hides from some of his demons, some of his memories; he still thinks he's better off some thoughts. _But it's so different._ Because Isaac can't lie like Scott can, he never could. He was never able to pretend, not like _this- not this deeply_. Not like Scott does.

(It's the most shocking thought he's ever had, that Scott is a liar. Even more shocking than finding out that _hey, fucking-_ werewolves _are a thing._ It- It's outrageous and _absurd_.

But it is also true.

Scott is a liar. And only now does Isaac _lets himself_ realize it.)

He thinks he should be angry, or betrayed- _maybe he would have been, before, when he thought Scott held the moon_. But now, now all he can think of is _how long has this been happening; how long has Scott been_ pretending- For Isaac's lies are partially covered (there's still this weight under his skin he's _sure_ anybody notices); Scott's, however- are not; he seems unreadable. Impenetrable. Like he doesn't let it out so it doesn't seep, like he keeps it all.

_And- crap, man._

Honestly, by the time he's under his covers, Isaac's so shocked by it all he's lightheaded, and- frustrated. With Scott, for pretending for so long. With himself, for only _now_ finally unveiling his eyes and actually seeing what was in front of him- for letting this distance and detachment get to them; for being selfish, and not _wanting_ to see. And with the world- _always with the world, this fucker_ \- for dropping so many bombs even a kind soul like the man downstairs' was engulfed by its claws.

At last, he recognizes- the feeling, such an old feeling he's never thought he'd be hit with again.

The dizziness followed by that same flight response, and a desire to punch and hurt so many people he should actually write them down on a list. He's seen Scott like this, before. _Trying- faking;_ and only by looking too hard for too long would you notice it- the nuances. _And, well, Isaac has- looked too hard for too long, that is._ He's just learned how to ignore whatever didn't fit his ideal, this _dreamish_ image of Scott he used to have. Used to hold on a pedestal. Used to-

 _Desire_.

He doesn't think he can do that now. Ignore it. Forget about it. It leaves him with a heavy heart and with lungs that feel like they are full of water, and with this knot in his throat that makes him nauseous.

(It's all he wants. To swallow it all and go back to sleep, but-)

It's only partially a metaphor when he thinks he'll never be able to close his eyes again.

\--

Scott's in the basement when he hears a car parking outside- his senses are all turned into who it is, what it wants; to be honest he's been filling air mattresses since he woke up, and even though it's keeping his mind off things, it's also ridiculously boring.

(Thing is: everything's calm and his mom's wedding is in one day and her family's coming at night and- well, he's allowed to be paranoid about it all.

He's allowed to be a little reticent about visitors at 7 am.)

Before he can get to the end of the stairs- to get a proper scent or actually ask who is it, Isaac's stumbling down from his bedroom, scratching his back and yawning loudly.

"I'll get it-", he says, and it's casual and reminiscent. As if he's forgotten how long has it been.

_Should Scott forget too?_

He manages to get to the living room just in time to see Isaac and Stiles practically sneering at each other. Their whole demeanor resembling raged cats, and Scott would laugh wasn't he so keyed up.

_Why is he keyed up?_

"Oh, no-"

"And here I thought we were free from the codependency- I mean dude it's not even 10 am-"

"Look who's back with their little tail between-"

"Seriously, dog jokes, time has actually passed, Stiles-"

"Trust me, Lahey, we know."

Scott would laugh if he wasn't so- well, _agitated_ \- yes. But also, there is this grudge between Isaac and Stiles, and he knows they wouldn't hold back on each other. It was already starting, and they could speak things he's not sure he's prepared to handle.  Somehow, he feels as if it would be a dangerous place to go to: honesty.

(Which is all sorts of _wrong_ , Scott knows. He understands it and he acknowledges it, but he's also unsettled- like he's stepping on unfamiliar ground. And it _is_ strange, for this- this situation isn't something new. Yet he wants to avoid it at all costs.

He can't handle bickering-truths. There's too much hanging.)

So he interrupts. He walks up to them, by the threshold, and he knows Isaac's side-eyeing him, and Stiles doesn't smile, but his face loses its tenseness, and his eyes lighten up considerably.

"When did you come home?", Scott asks, genuinely happy, yet restrained. The word _home_ sits heavy on his tongue, for he _knows_ it hasn't been Stiles' home for a few years, but it's still his- so he stays with it.

Stiles answers "last night, you know, had to unpack and I wasn't feeling well so I didn't call-" the same time Isaac exhales, as if he's bored of this conversation already, still standing by the door, holding it open, the arm doing so close enough from Scott's shoulders he can feel its warmth. His posture, as his expression, seem protective, and Scott's so thrown off by that he glances at him mid-Stiles's story about the forensics professor he _thinks_ -in that Stiles' way Scott's actually missed- might have killed someone.

"Is that your car?", Isaac asks, apparently not caring that he's interrupted the other boy's theories. He points at the blue KIA parked at the garage with his chin, and his tone is like a dog's bark.

"What-? Dude, why do you care? And, what are you still doing here?", it’s all said in one breath, while Isaac answers annoyingly slow, as if on purpose, "Just curious about what happened to that piece of crap Jeep of yours..."

"Well, it's none of your business."

They both snort- Isaac while smirking, and Stiles still appalled by the interruption, and by Isaac's presence altogether, and Scott doesn't wait for the next response before speaking, doing his best not to sound snappish, "It broke down during senior year-", and turning back to look at Stiles with a small smile, "Do you wanna come in? I was arranging a few mattresses for my mom's family, but we can cook some breakfast, if you want?" The last part he asks Isaac, too, fixing his hunched posture into something chipper.

Stiles already has had breakfast, so Isaac prompts to cook him and Scott something, while the two other boys descend to the basement to finish the mattresses-filling task. There's still this feeling nagging at Scott- and it's not only from his best-friend's visit, or even his and Isaac's clear dislike for each other. He does his best to cover it, though, bumping Stiles' shoulder with his lightly, making small jokes about his stubble and still gangly limps, even after all those years.

Eventually it comes out.

"Dude, he's still a dick. I think even dickier. You know, they say the French are very rude."

"Stiles-", Scott interrupts, using this scolding tone he hasn't in such a long time. And like the old times, it doesn't stop the other man from continuing.

"And he's all acting like nothing's changed- I mean", he gives a huge sigh, dramatically so, yet his eyes turn sincere and big. "Please tell me you gave him hell for that shit he pulled on graduation-"

"Don't."

More squawks, and he even flails. It almost seems like- _before_ , when he would do so when discussing villains and incoming dangers. Scott's holding one of the mattresses so hard he's pretty sure he's a second away from making a hole in it.

"Scotty- _seriously_ ", his tone is soft again. It lost all that judgmental edge it has for pretty much everyone except for a few selected ones from Stiles' inner-inner circle. And Scott's always _a lot_ relieved to find himself in the middle of it. Also- surprised he still is, that he can still be.

" _Just_ \- just help me with this, okay?", he points to the mattresses and the cleaning products and utensils laying around, "I gotta leave the house shining before my _abuela_ gets here."

(He's excited, but he's also terrified. He's missed them, yet he's disturbed, agitated, fearful. It's all he can think about- of how they'll see him now, his mom's family. What will they think of him, how will they like his changes. Will they _notice_ the big ones?

And it extends to Stiles and Isaac, too. Again, he acknowledges it does, however he chooses to ignore it- as he does with. With so much, really.)

Some of it- his distress- must have shown on his voice or his face or even his posture, and maybe he's not as good in pretending as he likes to believe. For Stiles gives him one of his smiles, the worthy ones, narrow and friendly. It's them against the world again, for this small mission, at least.

So they set themselves to work- after eating Isaac's breakfast, _and_.

(He's taken his shirt off, because of the hard work and because it's summer; and he hasn't felt self-conscious about his body for a long time. But then when Isaac looks him up and down and swallows, and- and he feels exposed and _naked_ , really. Like his chest's too big. And maybe he even blushes at little, which-

 _And_ \- the food is good, not surprisingly. Stiles chooses not to eat, saying something about not being a teenager anymore, or a werewolf, _ever_ \- _can't push too hard on the metabolism thing, gotta keep the shape_ -, and Isaac laughs mockingly, in that venomous way of his. But then his big eyes stare expectantly from Scott to the pancakes, and his gentleness- this attention he's giving is. _Unsettling._

The three of them work in companionable silence (interrupted a few times by bickering and huffing from Stiles and Isaac's part- as if each other's mere presence is a disturbance), cleaning and arranging the furniture for Scott's family's arrival, and Scott is thankful for so many things- it fills up his chest. It warms him, a little. It eases him, in ways that usually come and go as deep sea waves. Stiles eventually opens the dam of the college experiences, and he can't stop talking about the many situations he's lived and the many things he's learned.

(There's this edge, sometimes, in which Scott knows Stiles' not saying- _something_. Not on purpose, or even with malice. It's just- that they used to tell each other everything, until one day they didn't, and he honestly doesn't know who started, or what to blame- except for himself. Or life, in the days he feels more settled in his own body.

It's them- except for where it isn't. It's not them, in every part. Some have changed, others have died out completely- _and they can't ever get back_ -, and Scott's decided a long time ago to cling to the ones remaining.)

 _And-_ and. And Isaac's helping him dusting the living room's cabinets, and the way he smiles at Scott when handing him the wet cloth is too kind- too tender. As if he's reading whatever Scott's not saying- and he has to change gears in his mind to say "Thank you" instead of snap " _What?_ "

 _What are you doing? Why are you doing? What are you seeing?_ Why are you seeing?)

 _And_ , lastly. He's left grasping.

_Should he catalog everything? Should he pay attention? Should he consider it as something other than it really must be?_

Some things he doesn't need to tell Stiles- even if they're not as linked as they used to be, or as they wish they were, it's still easy. Not many words are necessary. But suddenly Scott's afraid he might not need words with Isaac- that he'll just know.

And if he does- what will he see?

 

* * *

 

_and it's hard looking back, knowing what I could've done_

_I'm never going back, I'm always on the run_

_and you never really find the pieces that you leave behind_

_all I got from this mess is fragments <<_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little bit harder, specially the last part. I think I'm trying way too hard to respect each character's past and feelings (which is all I want with this- besides the ogling and pining); and to be honest, Stiles is too much like me and I just have such a hard time writing him [ugggggghhh] Incredibly, Melissa is the easiest- I don't even know.
> 
> [Anyway, the songs that have inspired it the most were "Precious", by Depeche Mode, which I took that excerpt at the beginning from; "Unspoken", by Hurts, I mean, the /title/; "Fragments", by Jaymes Young at the end; and "Missing" and "Chained", by the XX.]
> 
> [sighs] Next comes the Delgados, feelings, and half-conversations!
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> And if you want, I'm on [tumblr](https://a-good-finder.tumblr.com), and it'd be nice to talk about whatever :)


	3. Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well I'm tired now_   
>  _Tired now I've grown_   
>  _We never did, we never did walk alone, did we?_
> 
> \--
> 
> A song-driven future fic in which Melissa's getting married and only that can drag Isaac's ass back to Beacon Hills.
> 
> An unavoidable outburst of feelings ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way bigger, and actually both sadder and happier than the previous ones. There's some self-harm, some half-apologies, and astral-maps-related jokes (I love them, btw, this is not me being judgy about it!!). I hope you enjoy it, anyway :D
> 
> [The summaries are from Rhodes' "Run".]

_> > and it's my whole heart, while tried and tested, it's mine_

_and it's my whole heart, trying to reach it out_

_and it's my whole heart, burned but not buried this time_

_I'm on trial, waiting 'til the beat comes out-_

_I'm miles away, he's on my mind_

_I'm getting tired of crawling all the way_

* * *

 

 

It's not even the grunt that wakes him up, or the gasping breaths; it's the smell of blood. From those years when a slightly faster heartbeat made him up on his heels, he admits having gone softer, easier, for only when the metallic scent hits his nose does his eyes jump open.

Firstly, he makes a mental note of where he is: in his old bedroom in Beacon Hills, at the McCall's, its lights out and its window closed by the green curtain they had bought him when he first came to live with them; the wardrobe standing tall on one corner, his small bed tucked on another, the thin bed sheet, covering his long legs. Then, as it used to, his wolf checks on the habitants- looking for both threats and victims-

(Adapting to this survival instinct he's never stopped having, yes, but which has been raised, as if alarmed, from the moment he- _realized_ he was back, inside this town and everything it came with.

 _And honestly, who could blame him?_ )

Melissa and her family (who's arrived early that night) are heavily asleep in their respective places, if the either lighter breathing or heavy snoring are anything to go by. (She's getting married on the afternoon, so it's good they're not the ones bleeding out in the middle of the night.) 

But if it's not himself (it's happened before, but he _has_ gotten better), that only leaves Scott- and, and _it's just_ \- Isaac - _can I just_ \- swallows _hard_ , thoughts running a mile a minute (avoiding it). He closes his eyes and tries to damp his senses, to pretend not to have felt it, in his very bones.

 _Excuse run just can he_ not _-_

Scott passes his bedroom door, probably going downstairs for some water (at least that's what he used to do), and Isaac ignores the way his own hands starts shaking.

(Or tries to. _Actively_ tries to. Shamelessly, and shamefully. He's told himself he wouldn't, not this time, but he still tries to ignore it as if it- as if it wasn't _important_.

 _Scott can probably deal with this on his own. He'd rather. He'd feel bad for waking Isaac up._ )

 _However_ -and it stings up and down his spine, his nerve endings, it both shocks him and relieves him- the fact that his hands are still shaking and he feels restless. And he knows it's not _him_. It's _them_.

It's this _bond_ he's thought was dead; this- this connection. He's forgotten how much he used to overlook most of it. But he _is_ an adult now; he's better at this.

So he- Isaac blows a steadying breath, he steels himself.

Opens his eyes.

And thinks.

_Maybe it's time to return the favor._

_Maybe it's time to breathe some color into his lungs._

(Like Scott has into his own all those years ago.)

So he gets out of bed, feeling heavier than he's felt in such a long time; but also feeling lighter. He rubs his hands on his face, runs his fingers through his hair, hears Scott cursing and breathing raggedly downstairs, and makes up his mind.

( _Maybe_ stepping into the kitchen will feel like ripping open wounds that shouldn't be touched anymore. That have itched and itched and _yeah_ sometimes in the past he might have given in and scratched it; but this- Isaac doesn't think he can get back from this.)

 _Yet_ , he finds himself by the threshold, watching Scott fumble single-handedly with one of the make-shift first-aid kits Melissa unsurprisingly keeps in nearly every part of the house, his face red and scrunched up. He looks both anxious and frustrated. Everything Isaac has seen before.

But that was _before_. This is now and it feels like a punch in his gut.

When he speaks _he has to say something how couldn't Scott have noticed him already_ , his voice cuts the silence as an arrow would-"I smelt blood"- it leaves his mouth and he can't tell if it hits its target, it's insecure and unsteady, hanging loose.

(If it were a different situation, Scott's response -wide eyes and accelerated heartbeat- would have been amusing, if not _fucking endearing_ , but- _that was before_.

This is now.)

"Did you cut yourself?"

(There's an inch of inquiry in his voice, but most of it is so covered in- _hesitance_ , as if afraid of finding the answer; in this hushed concern, like his worry is this secret he should have kept.

He thinks it's too late for that now. That wound has been lacerated.)

Scott might have thought about lying (Isaac can almost hear the "I'm okay" he was about to let out), standing with his body rigid and still, holding his muscles in this coiled way- but then his pulse quickens and he unintentionally fists the hand not holding the kit. Droplets of blood fall. Isaac inhales sharply, his reaction instantaneous.

"Whoa, why aren't you healing?", it does sound like an accusation, and- honestly, maybe it is.

_(Whoa, whoa, you still hurt!)_

_This is now- but god does it look like before._

Without realizing, overwhelmed by this utter and acute protectiveness, Isaac takes a few steps closer to the bleeding man, his hands reaching out. Scott takes a step back, calmly ( _too_ calmly, muscles straining. _God_ , he sees it now) sets the white box on the counter, and seemingly relaxes his shoulders ( _for_ Isaac's eyes, he knows it).

"It's not that big of a deal, dude."

_Go back to sleep._

_Please_.

(Scott's voice is in that hushed, low tone- as if swallowing it all down, heavy and meaningful. Isaac's is- nearly frantic, panicked- _they've been through this before_. _Haven't they?_

He can make it different this time.)

_Some wounds are bigger than others, doesn't mean they're not as painful-_

"Why aren't you healing? Did something happen?", Scott shakes his head, saying no more; Isaac's close enough to grab the kit, now, and opens it easily. Looks at Scott dead in the eyes. "Show me."

There's something in his own voice, he finds it and forces it out- a strength that wasn't there at first, and Scott, in all his masked vulnerability, in all his covertness, reacts to it, extends his right hand-

And lets Isaac take care of him.

It should feel like some sort of closure, the both of them, standing hunched in that darkened kitchen, surrounded by sleeping sounds coming from the Delgados- instead it feels like an opening, a starting point.

Isaac takes Scott's large hand in his long fingers, unfolds it- there are four holes in his palm, probably from his claws, bleeding profusely, _not healing_. Without looking at the other man (whose figure is stiff- breath held, jaw locked, shoulders strained), containing the heavy sigh his chest wants to release, Isaac dries the blood and keeps a slight pressure with the gauze from the first-aid kit; he then proceeds to roll another gauze around Scott's hand, knowing the bruise won't need cleaning- _it'll heal, eventually,_ hopefully.

Once it's finished, he dares look at Scott, in the eye, dares giving him a small smile, as if to soothe, although his own posture resembles the one of a person expecting a punch- which- _maybe he is, wouldn't be the first time_. Except that Scott's face is unreadable, as it has been since he arrived, its changes and shifts and lights unrecognizable to him- perhaps due to their distance, to the fact they have both grown apart; that Isaac's lost the ability to understand him, and that Scott's gained the one to hide.

 _Because of that_ \- because Isaac can't read Scott's heart lines, because they're strangers and the farthest even if their faces are inches apart- Isaac forces his wounds open, even wider, even deeper; he forces his face to show them, _for Scott to see them_ \- so that maybe they'll recognize each other beneath the years.

As a result, Scott's own face scrunches up, his eyes narrow- he _flinches_ back.

"Why are you-", but he stops himself mid-sentence. Swallowing, looking down. He shakes his head, for a moment it even seems like he's about to laugh off it all. It ends softly, but there was this anger when he first started talking, in his eyes. Isaac knows what's about to hit him.

"Just say it, Scott", he's resigned. Part of him, the one that's spent a few years growing, maturing, thinking; this part of him knows it's for the best. To let the words flow between them. That same cliché saying- that issues are better spoken than kept.

And Scott looks like a man about to explode. A kettle ready to scream.

But then, at this point, so is Isaac.

They speak quietly, but they might as well be screaming, with the force of their voices, of their words. Of how hard it is for them to leave their throats.

" _What is it_?"

" _Why are you giving a crap now_?", a pause and they both pant. It's out now. And again, he sounds angry, then guilty, then gentler; as if the words bite him on their way out, as if he has to soften their blow- but then, that's Scott. There's a weight to his voice and to the way he looks at anything but Isaac when he continues, "You didn't before. What's changed?"

"Are you fucking serious?", it's his immediate response- _but Scott's almost always serious_.

(And he knows it, Isaac- the reason for _this_. He's been quite expecting it, hoping it wouldn't, but knowing it should have- somehow.

It has crossed his mind- that Scott's aware of Isaac's decisions, of his motives, and that he does understand, just like Melissa had. Of why he left, of having a _right_ and a necessity of leaving- of _living_. But then the problem is not understanding. The problem is _hurting_.

It feels Scott's words- his tone; they organize themselves in these layers. In hurting, in grieving, resenting, then regretting. Then _caring_ , as the last stop, as the place he chooses to stay- as he does naturally- as he does with everything.)

"Do I look like I'm joking? _Why_?", his voice could have sounded angry but he speaks with such a hushed, pleading tone, _grieving_.

( _Why do you care now? About me. About us._ That's what he doesn't say.)

And god, Isaac could answer in so many ways, with so many heart wrenching truths. He chooses the easiest.

(Years had gone by- and, when it comes to _this_ , he's still a coward.)

"I'm here, now. I'm _here_. I- I _see_ it", he takes a big intake of breath, preparing himself for whatever he'll say next, because the words are coming out and he-

"I'm sorry", and Scott _sounds_ it, so earnest and _so incredibly sorry_. They were both looking down and now they stare at each other. It hits him, Isaac- Scott's dark and sorrowful eyes; and he finds himself leaning in, his voice the saddest when he asks, "For what, Scott?" As a response, Scott shrugs, and he looks so small. Unassuming, humble, _defeated_.

(Opening, showing Scott- it might have released him. It might have freed him to show, too- to uncover the lines he's been hiding- to allow Isaac to read him again. They're both stripped, eyes wide and exposed, and it's all coming out- fast and rushed. Yet it feels as if there's so much to be said.

It's laid bare- yet there's hesitance. There's too many walls to punch through.)

"Waking you up", he answers simply, holding up his bandaged hand. And then, almost as a question, yet certain and steely as only Scott can be, "Everything else."

(Pledging in his tone for comprehension, edged by guilt- He's as serious as he's ever been, the creases in his brows growing.

His eyes are so immense.)

Isaac lets out this deep- _deep_ breath.

Were he younger, Isaac knows he would have either shifted and bolted or hid and curled up on himself, sweaty and small- _during those days_. Instead, he felt like laughing- hysterically. _Because_ he understood. What _else_ meant- all those little things that weighted; that were so heavy it made them see each other as strangers when they were closer than ever.

During those days.

Without waiting for a response, or maybe not even expecting one, in that unassuming way of his, Scott begins to put the items back to the first-aid kit, mumbling "You should probably go back to sleep now" as if to put an end to it, but his eyes keep fleeting, taking in the kitchen, the dark shadows from the night, his own flexing hands.

There was a part- there has been a moment. In which he'd look at Scott for confirmation- for approval. He'd been terrified of hurting his feelings, of disappointing him. Of not being someone he- Scott McCall- that beautiful soul- could trust.

But he also deserved happiness.

(And the paths to _it_ \- to being happy, to joy and fulfillness- they weren't particularly distinguishable, having appeared on different levels- of depth, of shape. Of occurrence. And he could've gone another way, but he _chose_ -he chose the shape he wanted his happiness to take- because, you know.

He _deserved_ it.

To be wanted by others just as much as he wanted them.)

That was the shift. That was what Scott was apologizing for- he knew it was it. It being this pain so deep in his bones he'd call core, he'd ignore its existence. The pain they shared- the pain that split them apart.

The pain he still can't name.

(It's grieving and hurting.)

The feelings he still can't address.

(It's resenting and caring.)

As it is, Scott's apologizing for her. For when falling for her broke them. Whatever they had- or they were starting to grasp. He's acknowledging it, _again_ \- he's touching these wounds with shaking fingers. He's taking it to himself- and it leaves, _it does_ \- it leaves Isaac speechless- that he still weights it on his own shoulders. When it _isn't_. It wasn't.

( _Falling for Allison was this unavoidable event, this crash course he couldn't have stopped if he tried; because how could he_ not _? And then- and then losing her-_ God _. Losing her. And yes, of course- how could they have survived this?_

Except they _did_ \- and- _this is it_.)

As he feels one large hand enclosing hesitantly on his wrist, not even holding- his breathing gets back to its previous, yet hitching, rhythm. Isaac stares at it, through the dark- the contrast of their skins, of their touch.

It- the acceptance of touch; it seems to be enough for Scott- _for him to put himself back in his own axis-_ for Scott's eyes are as dark and his voice is as calm- his body is, not rigid, but _masked_ \- the cracks are hidden; he's standing tall and secure- as if it wasn't two seconds ago his brown eyes were soulful- now, _now_ he seems as- safe, the world is _safe_ \- as ever, and he says, "Go to sleep, Isaac."

As if asking to forget it all.

Focusing on movement- _focusing on bravery_ , his gut the heaviest, Isaac rearranges the hand closest to Scott- until it's holding it. Gripping it like it should have- somehow. Like it should have been done sooner.

(With the knowledge that this pain could have made them closer. That these thoughts could have been fixed earlier- that these lines could have been cut deeper, these lies wider.)

Scott swallows, and it can be heard as this loud- _loud_ noise cutting through their silent breathing and heavy eyes. He swallows and nods- he lets go of his own hold on Isaac's wrist (their touch being this tight, lose knot- as it ever was).

He says, "I'll see you tomorrow"- and it's simple, the simpler promise he'll ever hear. But then his eyes, however- _his eyes_ \- they say so much it looks like the darkest light Isaac'll ever see. The deepest abyss he'll ever fall. This bottomless black hole- not unreadable, but so meaningful it both confuses and- _and_.

( _Captivates_.)

"Yeah- I'll see you", he answers, Isaac- as a whispered secret, and his throat is sore for not speaking when he most should have- For all these words he's too scared to share.

The touch is gone- their hands slide away, dragging against each other. They both go separate ways, and Isaac shuts it all out as much as he can, except there are bubbling thoughts inside his mind with the strength of a nuclear bomb, devastating in its power. He lies in bed and it haunts him.

He just-

(He can't shut the part of his brain that says this is like one of those role reversals. For Isaac is the one held together, Scott is the one falling apart. But then Isaac remembers he has never let Scott _actually_ see him vulnerable- not really. For to _fall apart_ would be to tell him how he _felt_ , and he knows that's something he could never do.

And that- that's the breach in their relationship. He _sees_ it now more than ever.

They _can't_ talk. Even though they had, so much, they had used this _misplaced_ language that never said anything, that never led anywhere.

And they still do it. They swallow everything.)

He remembers telling Scott- _he sees it now_. He can't close his eyes to it anymore.

It's out. He sees it, he knows it.

(Maybe he'll stop it.

Maybe he'll close that bridge. Maybe he'll burn it.)

The realization makes it almost easy to fall asleep.

\--

When the first rays of sunshine reaches the walls of his bedroom through its opened window, Scott blinks his unmoving stare out of the ceiling, eyes stinging, feeling as nervous and as nauseas as if _he_ is the one getting married on that day.

Yet his mom's heart sounds calm and steady from the room farthest from his. While his own heart seems ready to burst- _it's so loud_. It beats roughly against his chest, a rapid thumping against his ears; a powerful pulsing in his veins that make his eyes jump.

He flexes his right hand, the wounds his claws made the night before only pinkish welts now, and breathes out slowly, preparing himself for when she knocks on his door, seemingly excited, full of this childish energy.

_(Heels bumping on the floor, like she can't stop herself from moving.)_

Her "Scott, are you awake?" followed by her curly-framed face appearing from the now ajar door seems small and hesitant, but then he pats the left side of his bed and throws a fond smile her way and she snickers to herself, climbing on his bed. His smile grows wider as he opens his arms, letting her cuddle against his side, like he used to when little.

Both settle together with a content sigh.

Their breathing weights on them a little, their eyes unfocused.

"Are you nervous?", they manage to ask at the same time, with the exact same worried tone, and it makes them laugh, half surprised half amused, the seriousness which they spoke with acting as a response.Somehow their laughter act as a breath of fresh air.

"I can't believe I'm doing this!", Melissa whispers loudly, a wide grin on her face, still, wiping a laughter-tear from the corner of her eye. "Can you?"

Scott clears his throat before replying, not wanting her to notice this sudden tightness in his voice-

 _always trying to hide the bad things from her_ -

"Yes", and he sounds small, like a child admitting a secret, a tiny yet pleased smile finding its way on the corner of his mouth, "From the moment I saw the way you two looked at each other, mom."

She beams up at him and he knows she believes it too.

That's all he wants, honestly. Sometimes Scott feels like he could live out of his mom's smiles; whenever they reach her eyes, broadcast her white teeth, make her look like her usual bright self and not the single mother of a freaking werewolf who-

"Are _you_ nervous?", she asks again, somehow noticing his demeanor change this time.

But he's learnt how to lie to her about his feelings for a long time now.

(And he knows, he's been there- in those moments when he opened up to her and it made everything so much better, but- he's selective about it. He can choose when to.

 _Not now_ , it's his mantra. Not when they're this happy.)

"A little. You know," he answers, giving her a charming smile he's perfected over years of deception, "it's not every day some guy swoops in and intents on _marrying_ my beautiful and pretty incredible mom and endangers my position as her favorite boy", and then he fake-pouts while she _giggles_ and punches his arm lightly. "But I'm still a werewolf and therefore stronger than him so I think we're cool..."

At that they share a small chuckle and she hums happily. "I _have_ warned him about my werewolf son, though. I'm pretty sure he felt _very_ threatened." And he knows she understands how much it means to him this playfulness to which they sometimes treat his lycanthropy with.

It's stupid, but most of his issues are, he thinks.

"Well, he better", he keeps quietly laughing to himself even after his mom accidentally dozes off again, having an hour or two until they had to get ready, still high on this newfound normalcy that's starting to feel so natural for them. On being able to make fun of something that used to haunt him, able to make but mostly see his mom the happiest he's ever seen her.

On being giddy about seeing his friends not because he was relieved they survived another day but simply because they were away living their lives and he just missed them like crazy.

(Even though, you know, he is always terribly and scarily relieved they had survived the day. But it's different from when their lives were always on the line. It's calmer, somehow. For them. And for him, eventually.)

_Once he settles._

(He tries to ignore the part of him that states- that's telling him to just let it out.

And he's not trying to fool anyone, _he just_ \- he just doesn't want to. He's tired of his own issues. They're tiresome, and he doesn't think people should be hearing about his crap.

_It's reminiscent. It's over. He should just move on._

Honestly, it's that simple.)

It's only a few minutes after that his mom wakes up from her short-lived nap, and she's serious again, as if hearing, as he is, her family stirring awake on the bedroom downstairs- she looks at him from where her head's laying, by his shoulder, and he can't help his furrowed brows. He tenses as she sighs.

"Are you worried they'll notice?", and he shouldn't be surprised _she's_ noticed. She saw how he's gone slightly wired- in his words and movements- the moment his _abuela_ and his two _tías_ arrived. As if studying his every action so as not to appear different from an average _human_ young man- which he was; until he wasn't. And it's that edge he's been desperate to cover.

(To be honest, he was actually _very much_ wired and strained- but it's become common for him to pretend not to be _something_ to his mom, although he hates it, although he'd rather tell her, share- _but, how could he?_

Again, he must be selective.)

He's selective.

"A little- aren't you?", he swallows and looks down at her wise and understanding brown eyes, feeling small, as he used to when a kid, as he does whenever he allows himself to be let under her wing. "I mean- the whole pack'll be there- and what if something happens? What if I lose control or-"

"Scott- you've been a werewolf for years, why would you lose control right now of all times?", she even sounds a little amused at his worries, like the time he was adamant about not going to school because it was milk-tooth-falling season.

He doesn't tell her it's always on the surface of coming out- the feral wolf. That it's always itching above his skin, ready to pounce and slip through whenever his guard is down. And, _yes_ \- it is under control, he has an understanding of himself as a werewolf, a human and a beast, and it's not like shifting gears in his mind, it's not like changing from one to another- he _can_ mingle both, he can be a _werewolf_ \- Still. There's too much at risk, and he's uncertain of himself as he hasn't been in such a long time.

(It's on account of too many variables- and his senses are out of line.)

But because he's already had this conversation with his mom, once, and because- _mostly, specially_ \- he doesn't want her to fear he'll shift during their walk to the altar, or in front of their unaware family- that he nods, swallows and nods, and then gives her a reassuring smile.

"I know", he says, as if to end the conversation.

"Besides, they'll still love you- you must know that."

She's serious- she's sincere, earnest and _very serious_ \- yet he doubts her; hates himself for he doubts her. It's always skeptical, when letting people in on his true self, in on his secret- he's ever dubious and tentative- not quite trusting they would _see him_ and not only the monster behind his red eyes.

(Like- when they first told her fiancé, Leslie, then recently engaged, after weeks of conversation between mother and son. They sat on the sofa, and Scott made his confession just as Leslie made his- werewolf boy and transgender man recognizing each other in their fears of not being accepted, in their love for the curly-haired woman staring expectantly at them from the threshold.

Leslie saw him as _Scott_ , future veterinarian and step-son- but he knows, Scott, he _remembers_. Not everybody has a close relationship with difference, not everybody understands. And maybe he's not ready to pay this price- specially during his mom's wedding, and that's a fact. Of that he's certain.)

Despite feeling it, though, the unsettling-ness - he fixes his smile, and says "Yes, I know that too, mom",  and it's only a testament of how good of a liar he's become that she believes him.

\--

A few minutes later, the sounds of their visitors walking around their own bedrooms forces Scott and his mom to leave their warm nest to face the day. She's excited, if not slightly nervous, but cheerful nonetheless, and goes straight to her bathroom to take a shower. He, on the other hand, yet feeling lighter in his step, goes to the kitchen to cook them breakfast still with a sense of dread which's been hanging on the back of his head- which he'll have to pretend not to feel, as he does.

For that, and also because it might improve their mood, he turns on the radio on their favorite station (one which exceptionally plays the 80's songs, from English to Spanish to Portuguese, in some rare occasions) and sets the table for six, starting to arrange the food from the cabinets and the fridge- the music helps soothe his nerves, and he's singing out of beat and dancing around while putting the toasts on a plate when Isaac sits down on the table, sleepy.

"Good morning", he says, speaking the words in the same rhythm of the song that's playing at the moment. Isaac stares at him bewildered, and for one split second Scott's terrified he'll express how strange it is his behavior, considering the night before.

(That he'll acknowledge his pretenses- for he _knows_ the other man has noticed, and it scares him to death he'll bring it to the surface, eventually.)

He doesn't know what he'll say or how he'll react and it stops him in his tracks, the moment his _tía_ Madalena walks into the kitchen, humming to the song still playing and swaying her hips a little, her brown eyes beaming. "Morning, kiddo!", she says, kissing Scott on the cheek, as she is used to doing.

"Morning, Madá- I made us breakfast", he finishes setting the table, and although his mood has faded a little, he can still pull it off. "Mom'll be down in a few, I think. Did you sleep well?"

Madalena, or Madá, which is a nickname Scott's been calling her since he can remember, nods with a sound "Yep!" and smiles warmly at Isaac as she sits, putting her own breakfast close by her plate, spreading butter and jelly, pouring some milk, all the while asking the blonde man about his birthday, opening the dam to her usual horoscope talk.

"But how come you don't know the _time_!! It's essential so I can read your astral map!", she seems extremely fazed by Isaac's responses that _no, he's never asked his parents, he didn't know it was important_ \- and he, Isaac, sounds so embarrassed by the entire situation, his cheeks a bit flushed and eyes almost pleading to Scott, whenever they meet, it's all he can do not to snicker.

"I've done the astral map of all of Scott's partners, it helps a lot since we can't always meet them in person- to keep on eye on our Scotty, you know", and she winks, and although it seems an off-handed comment, it puts Scott on edge, stopping mid-chew, a blush coming up his cheeks, and it only worsens when Isaac catches his eyes and smiles, wide and teasing, his own face pink-ish.

They're interrupted by his other _tía_ , Milena, and his  _abuela_ , Valéria, arriving to the kitchen, demeanors comfortable and at ease- Scott knew putting a radio on was a good idea, it always is when it comes to his mom's family. The two women sit while singing to a ballad he's heard a thousand times before, but doesn't recall the name, and Madá is quick to update them on Isaac's lack of time of birth.

"¡ _No manches_ , Ma!", Milena answers sarcastically, half-yelling, then rolling her eyes at her sister and turning to Isaac, fake-whispering, "Giving your time of birth to this woman will be like selling your soul- _don't do it_!", at that, even Madá laughs, relating this story they had told Scott about one of his mom's boyfriend who'd actually broken up with her for fear of Milena's words.

"But honestly, Isaac, would it be so bad?", and there's that winking again- the three of them laugh, Isaac slightly embarrassed by the attention, and Scott finds his _abuela_ staring at him, as if expecting his reaction to his _tías_ flirting with his friend. It stops him on his tracks again, but he recovers quickly enough to give her a small smile, the one he knows she loves.

"Did you sleep well, _wela_?", he asks, willing to make small talk and keep this unsettling feeling at bay. Isaac gives a loud _laugh_ (and the thought that he hasn't heard this in the longest of times jumps to the forefront of his mind, but he ignores it) at one of his _tías_ comments, and he actively doesn't try to listen to what they are saying. They're cheeky enough that it can be anything, and he'd rather not- _not get involved in their teasing_.

"Yes, I did. Were you the one who's filled the mattresses? I hope you haven't let that friend of yours touch mine- you remember what happened the last time, hopefully? Because I can't seem to forget", it's her answer, in that low, strong tone of hers. She doesn't let him respond to it, though, as she continues, "I will never forget the pain and shock of having my mattress explode below me the moment I lay down on it; frankly, sweetheart, I don't know what that boy has instead of gray matter-"

"I was the one who filled them, _'la_ , promise- he only helped me clean the furniture this time", it's a struggle not to outwardly laugh at it all- she's talking of Stiles; of the last time she's been here and he was the one who, again, helped Scott set the bedroom for them. Having, by accident (he thinks, but honestly he's never sure when it comes to Stiles), done a hole on one of the mattresses, he tried to cover them with duck-tape, which obviously was the worst idea, for, as his _abuela_ has just reminded him, the whole thing had filled out the moment she tried to sleep. It was a bit of a disaster.

" _He_ as in Stiles?", Isaac chips in, amused, apparently already knowing it was, and knowing this would make great mocking material- Scott can't help but notice the glimmer in his eyes. The answer he receives are one very unhappy nod and two mischievous ones.

"Yes- it was last time we were here-"

"I think it was graduation? No, wait- _ma_?"

"I think so too, when Scotty was graduating in high school-"

"We all came, 'course- and _ma_ was so mad-"

"It was _hilarious_!"

"Easy for you to say- you were not the one who had to sit strangely during the entire ceremony-"

"Well, considering I've found a date the night before I'd like to-"

" _Jesus Christ_ , Madalena!!"

"Madá, honestly, _vales verga_ -"

And all the while- Scott's been stiff, he felt it and so did Isaac. It was as if their conversation wasn't happening, the song wasn't playing- their hearts weren't beating. It's been a reoccurring theme during the two days they've been in it- he had separated a chair for him, for Isaac. He had expected and waited for him to come, for it all to be settled, for Isaac to see them graduating, as bittersweet as it was. Except- he didn't come. He didn't answer. He didn't even call.

It _hurt_ \- and Scott doesn't think he's ready to admit to it so early in the morning. So he's thankful when _tía_ Milena finishes her milk and changes the subject- smoothly, as she's prone to doing when noticing sore themes. "So, Scotty, we haven't even met Mel's fiancé- _who is the guy_?

And for the love of _God_ , Madalena, don't you dare ask for his astral map thing", she adds, and the mood shifts considerably, his _tías_ going back to their usual bicker, his _abuela_ giving a rare snort while drinking her coffee, in that austere way of hers. The radio announces the weather and the next couple of songs- Latin genres he's come to know so well. Upstairs, his mom's leaving the bathroom, humming softly a waltzing song- the one she's to dance with her future husband.

Scott and Isaac share a long look, and he doesn't know what it's written on it, what it says- what it reads. There's understanding, there's hurt. But there's also healing- and Scott'll take what he can get.

 

* * *

 

_I am sorry this is always how it goes_

_the wind blows loudest when you've got your eyes closed_

_but I never changed a single colour that I breathe_

_so you could have tried to take a closer look at me <<_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're hispanic, please tell me if I've screwed up with the expressions! I had these ideas about these three women, and I kinda fell in love with them?! They'll be more explored, don't worry, I just had to cut it- it was getting too big! 
> 
> [I've used mainly "Which Witch", by Florence + the Machine. And /man/, this song has inspired me completely. Not only with this chapter, but with the entire fanfiction, to get into Isaac's mindset- it ///is/ kinda perfect. You should totally listen to it! Seriously, the feeling I had was that I should put a quote for each part of this chapter- it's just so fitting. But also "Organs", by Of Monsters and Men- just- take a look at both of them. They're pretty perfect in their characterizations.
> 
> For the title, I decided to stay with "Open", by Rhye- even though I'm pretty sure I'm gonna use this one again in the future.]
> 
> Next chapter- wedding, pack, more family, feelings, ogling, pining; you know, the usual.
> 
> And if you want, I'm on [tumblr](https://a-good-finder.tumblr.com), and it'd be nice to talk about whatever :)


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